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Recorded throughout 2015-16 and finally put together in the beginning of 2017. Most of the songs came from jamming along with the canned drums on my little Yamaha keyboard so I used them on most of the tracks. “Quieter Now” was originally recorded with Garageband on an Iphone and the drums are from that recording. “Driving Us Home” is a true story that belongs to Jax, and my old friend Tony DeTomas left me the voicemail that serves as an intro to the song “Best Ever.”

Show Lyrics

Delicate Weight

She said, It's all in how you see it,
Then it's all in who you know.
And if you stay too long,
Where you don't belong,
The cracks, they start to show.
It's a delicate weight,
That you're holding onto,
And it's hard to explain,
Or understand.
And that's part of the fury,
And all of the madness,
Of a delicate weight,
In your trembling hand.
She said, It's not enough,
And it's almost gone,
And I can't take anymore.
Then it's all too much,
And it takes too long,
And it's nothing like it was before.

Make Believe

You read it in a lovely book,
There's other lovely books to read.
The trouble is, you call it faith,
And treat it like a certainty.
And judge the ones who don't agree,
With all your make-believe.
I understand the desperate need,
For something more than meets the eye,
To think that someone's in control,
That somehow there's a reason why,
But people kill, and people die,
And all for make-believe.
It's only blasphemy,
If you believe.
And the butcher hones,
When the rich man spends,
And the shepherd tends his sheep.
You were children in the darkness,
And you made up things,
To explain all of the wonder and the suffering.
Now you're older, and you know more,
But still you cling,
To all that make-believe.

All We Got

I take you,
Lawfully,
To have and hold.
To Have.
And Hold.
From this day,
Eternally.
We're all we've got now.
In sickness,
And in between.
We're all we've got now.
Till death, dear.
It's all we've got now.
It's all too crystal clear,
We're all we've got now.

Run (vox)

It’s everything,
It’s all the time,
The trouble was hers,
But lately it’s mine.
And if it’s not real,
She can pretend.
She’s out of her mind,
And into my head.
There’s give and there’s take,
There’s take what you get.
The little miss takes,
The minor forgets.
And when it get’s real,
It’s a hell of a time.
She’s out of her head,
And into my mind.
It’s all or nothing, kid.
It’s what your parents did,
And you may learn to love it yet.
The hunger trumps the score,
When all you need is more,
And if you’re lucky, you’ll forget
Just how it felt, and what it meant,
When you were lost and loving it.
When you were young,
You were inspired.
The birds were dancing on the wire,
And love was what you made when you were bored.
Nobody said,
You’ve had enough tonight.
Or if they did, it went ignored.
Was that love,
Or were they warning signs?
The first sick volley of the war.
Nothing’s slowing down.
You’re always awake.
There’s nothing in the sound.
There’s nothing left to taste.
And now that we’ve got you down,
It’s best to settle in,
That’s all it takes.

Can’t Stop

They're waiting by the back door,
With the cops and the clergy,
And the sex starved starlet,
That started it all.
And it's still not clear,
If the swat teams here,
Just to keep the fragile peace,
But they look like kids,
And they're armed to the teeth.
And Denny once said,
“We’d be better off dead.”
But since then, he's found god,
Now he's pretty sure
That the crux of the cure,
Is to never be born at all.
And all your aging supermen,
Are hanging up their capes,
For their daytime jobs.
They've finally come to understand,
When we idolize the bad guys,
The battle’s lost.
And we can't stop now.
They're waiting by the back door,
With the cops and the clergy,
And the sick idea,
That started it all.
And it all comes down,
To the feel of the sound
Of a foot on your bedroom floor,
And you were sleeping alone,
At least you were before.

Best Ever

They're standing there right beside you,
The people you've been before.
The youngest one is from high school,
But he don't know you no more.
And you can't be sure,
It's just wait and see.
But remember when,
Get's you wondering,
If you've already been
The best you'll ever be.
The twenty something you's hungry,
Impressive and lean.
The thirty something you is longing for,
The you you were in your teens.
They're standing there right beside you,
Looking listless and bored,
And just a bit disappointed,
The people you've been before.

Namaste

Namaste,
I'm a stay here with the out crowd,
Out there the talk is cheap, and too loud,
In here it's saved,
For things you just can't say.
Fits all the same,
I'll just hang here with the wrecked set,
We'll fold with aces on our foreheads,
And hedge our bets,
Till Nero starts to play. .
It's all I have to say,
and I could be wrong.
but I'm giving it away,
And it won't last long
It's violins,
And violence,
Open bars,
And barbed wire fences,
And protest songs,
We never learned how to play.
Namaste,
Nah, I'm not going nowhere,
Dressed in reticence worn mohair,
I’m dressed to kill,
But no one's taking aim.

All Pissed Off

She's a truly lovely girl,
And she's all pissed off at the world,
Because it's her desperate yearning,
That keeps the fucker turning,
So she's all pissed off at the world.
And he's all pissed off at her,
Because man, he can't be sure,
If it’s just a state she's in,
Or something that he did?
So he's all pissed off at the world.
And they're all pissed off at the world,
Yeah they're all pissed off at the world,
But they're easier to lead,
Once they've made each other bleed,
Keep them all pissed off at the world.

Driving Us Home

Was it something that you heard at the grocery store,
Or something someone said at work,
That got me thinking about the grieving butler's line,
In that scene from The Jerk,
Which got me thinking about the Big Lebowski,
And poor Donnie's brief funeral,
And the way he died in Fargo,
All that blood,
In all that snow,
Which got me thinking that the summer was nearly gone,
And wondering how the winter would be,
When I noticed how quiet the car had become,
And I noticed you were looking at me.
And I got a feeling,
That something ain't right here.
Something went down,
I can tell by your tone.
And I don't know what,
Cause while you were talking,
I was just driving,
Driving us home.
I’m not saying you should,
I’m just thinking maybe,
Try taking the shorter route,
Round to the point you’re making.

To Do List

I tried but I didn’t do,
all of the things
that you wanted.
I thought they’d get done,
But there’ll always be one
that i missed.
And it’s not a rebellion,
Or some delicate act
of defiance.
I just get lost in the faces
of friends on the fridge,
by the list.
And the sky,
Is always falling down.
Falling down,
Around you.
And if it’s worse,
with me around,
Just cross me off the list of things to do.
It’s all, I guess so,
Where it used to be, Hell yeahs.
Now it’s all, Maybe,
Where we used to be sure.
We used to be fine,
Just doing nothing together.
Now there’s no time,
And all the fun just seems forced.
I can’t remember the last time,
You told me you loved me,
When it didn’t sound hollow,
It didn’t seem like a chore.

Quieter Now

He's pulling away,
She's shutting down,
It's falling apart,
It's quieter now.
She said, It isn't the same,
At least I can't see how,
I'd have signed up,
For what we've got now.
He said, You were a ray,
Of sweet sunshine,
But I've come to hate,
The sun in my eyes.
And there's a bright side,
It's all acetylene flashes.
No matter how full,
They're just filthy glasses.

Now and Then

Now and then,
From time to time,
When it rains,
When she smiles.
When I see what it cost you,
Closing your eyes…
Then again,
From time to time,
I go black,
And dead inside.
And I feel just enough,
To understand why...

Tattoo

The face is from a photo of Moses,
And there's a gun and some roses,
And that's the Buddha from Rome.
Yeah, it's Greek,
And then the bottom part's Asian,
And roughly translated,
It says "white boy go home."
It's bold, brazen, and permanent.
It's the deepest of thoughts,
In the thinnest of scars.
And it's more,
So much more than an ornament,
I tore the heart off my sleeve,
And carved it into my arm.
It's new,
The guy that did it's left handed,
He said I'll understand it,
Once the puss is all gone.
It's old,
And it's a little bit faded,
But it's my first and my favorite,
It just says, "Made in My Mom."
It's bold, brazen, and permanent.
It's what I truly believe.
I'll get it filled in the fall.
And it's more,
So much more than an ornament.
I'm all about No Regerts,
It didn't hurt much at all.

You know you’re getting old when ten years seems like just a winter or two ago. Or maybe it’s when you empty the dishwasher automatically. Not only without the brief thought of leaving it for later or for someone else to do, but also without thinking, “What a very grown up thing it is I’m doing.” But this really isn’t an album about that. It was recorded at the forever house in what by extension must be the very last Rubber Room. I left the mics in place and turned them on whenever I had some free time, mostly at night, throughout 2013. This album also has the somewhat dubious distinction of being the only collection of songs I’ve ever written and recorded sober. If nothing else, it made the recordings a bit more consistent, and the files themselves slightly easier to find.

Show Lyrics

Where U Been

Everyone's waiting,
Everyone came.
To see how it's ending,
To see if you've changed.
They heard you were lost,
But now you've come home.
Where have you been kid,
Where did you go?
There's so many questions.
There's so much to say.
So much has happened,
Since you went away.
But they can't find the words,
When they get you alone.
Where have you been kid,
Where did you go?

Wings

She was standing by the stairs,
With last night tangled in her hair,
And someone else's tears
Trapped in her eyes.
When I asked her how she was,
She gave the quilt she wore a shrug,
And glanced out her cracked window
Toward the sky.
And Sarah said, "It sounds a little strange,
But there's a big blue sky,
And today I feel it's weight."
She said, "Most of us are just songbirds on display,
And with healthy wings,
You feel more of the cage."
The place was still a mess,
So I poured us what was left,
Then i brought it out
And placed it in her hand.
She shuddered as she sipped,
Then she wiped her stiffened lip,
And said, "Thank you, love,
I knew you'd understand."

A Little Less

If you swallow this today,
There's no longing,
There's no more pain.
Just an empty where the feeling used to be.
A little numbness to the touch,
It's not good,
to feel so much.
The less you feel, the less you really need.
And every day,
Leaves a little bit less,
of me.
If you swallow this today,
You won't mind anything they say,
You may not even feel,
the need to speak.
It's the things we have to say,
To keep the things we feel at bay,
That drives us from the cradle,
to our knees.
A little more,
A little less,
Till there's
very little left.

Tailspin

Awake for days,
But you can't sleep.
Restless legs.
Reckless dreams.
Promises,
You'll never keep.
You'd slow it down,
If you knew how.
Take control.
Shut it down.
But it's too late.
To change it now.
You know you'll never win.
This won't take long.
You're caught in a tailspin.
Just relax,
The brakes are gone.

Love

We were fighting for your virtue
When you fell upon my sword,
I asked you if I'd hurt you,
You said it could've hurt some more.
Deep inside,
We both know you're half crazy,
But I may have been the one who drove you nuts,
So I guess we'll call it love.
You were pleading to his honor,
As the grounds of my defense,
When you offered up my alibi,
You said, "He came and went."
I was swearing my devotion,
Vowed I'd love you till I die.
You said, "I'd make a lovely widow, dear,
But an unconvincing bride."

Wait

Wait,
While I try to think of what to say,
To maybe make you want to stay.
Something clever.
Something better,
than wait.
I'm thinking if we talked a while,
I could maybe make you smile,
And you wouldn't want to leave.
Wait,
I can't believe we're lying here,
I never thought I'd be this near,
So close to everything I dreamed.
Wait,
There's part of me that's terrified.
It's drowning in your perfect eyes,
And knows someday you'll look away.
Wait
It isn't what you think it is.
You've only heard one side of this.
There's so much more that you should know,
Before you go.
Wait
While I try to think of what to say,
To make you turn around and stay.
You don't have to leave,
just wait

Piano

All
your
gray
skies
hang
above
us

Run

Instrumental.

Firing Line

There's nothing left to say.
We said it all before.
It's everything we said,
That's led to this.
There's nothing left to do,
We've done it all to death.
It's time we closed its eyes,
and laid our love to rest.
It cuts like I'm being carved up from the inside.
It aches like my hollowed-out gut's been packed with ice.
And that's just half
the weight of your sigh.
That's why I pray they aim straight,
and I smile at the firing line.
Was it worth the cost?
The never ending fight?
Are you any better off, love,
now that you've proved you right?
Light my last cigarette,
My hands are tied,
brush your lips across my cheek,
and pull the blindfold tight.

Walk Away

Our last farewell resigned itself
To a mannequin embrace,
As guarded as our footsteps in the snow.
It's harder than I thought it'd be
to turn and walk away,
And it's sweeter than it ought to be to go.
The backseat's packed With all the things
that you no longer need,
I'll climb in and drive your past away.
It hurts a bit to leave a ship
That's grounded in mid stream,
But in the rising tide, It's suicide to stay.
So tally up the damages,
The balance and the blame,
I'll find a way to pay you what I owe.
It's harder than I thought it'd be
To turn and walk away,
And sweeter than it ought to be to go.

Herein lies yet another collection of acerbic love songs and self indulgences. Turns out I’m a one-trick pony. To quote the esteemed Dr. Thompson, “I’ve never claimed to be anything but a nice guy and an athlete.” Dave Mirabella added his slide guitar magic to “Rusted,” and Nick Della Guistina lent his schooled ear to taming my sonic mess. Recorded in the Red Room with N-Track Studio and Drums on Demand during the summer of 2004.

Show Lyrics

Jane

We hardly ever fight,
It’s damn near wedded bliss,
Since I learned to take a dive,
Since I finally learned to quit.
The drunkard had to go,
He was talking in his sleep.
So I showed him to the door,
Then I poured myself a drink.
And I understand
Everything changes,
But there’s a part of me
that love’s the man I used to be
So eloquently loaded,
Just fucked enough to know it,
All god-damned,
And devoted to the fall.
A Don Quixote with a plan,
A Cyrano with two left hands,
A drunken Enderby
Who’s never where he says he’ll be.
Jane,
Stop this crazy thing.
It’s changing you,
And you’re changing me.

Athenaeum

A running list of all the worst of my mistakes,
All categorized and ranked,
With some highlighted.
Kept on hand in case I forget what you said,
For when I can’t get out of bed,
And you’re not done fighting.
You tagged every time that anyone
Has ever done you wrong.
If I could read your mind, love,
I’d have to burn the athenaeum down.
No one’s talking,
If they tell you where it hurts,
You’ll know where to hit them first.
All those words
You wasted on the hurt,
When it finally goes to press,
Does it hurt you any less?
I’m all done, I guess I said too much tonight,
Gave you way too much to write,
I see you’re still writing.
But someday you’ll read it back,
And I hope by then you’ll laugh,
You’ll laugh at all that crying.

Standard Practices

I spoke before I raised my hand,
The ritual eludes me once again.
If there’s a problem here,
Just tell me where it goes
Because I’m afraid
There’s always something else.
And why discuss it
When there’s still room in the back
On the bottom shelf.
You try to fight it,
And all you get is bruised.
Everyone’s disgusted
I’m amused.
It seems a part of me
Is always falling out of me
And I wouldn’t mind,
But they all look so concerned.
And once the rest of me
Begins to get the best of me,
I’ll gather up the poetry
And see if bullshit burns.
Don’t try to fight it
It’s easier to lose.
Everyone’s amazed
I’m just confused.
It’s all standard practices
The paper cut, the all better kiss.
We both know what it is,
But it’s not working.
I’m not the norm I used to be,
I don’t know what went wrong with me,
I waited on epiphany,
But nothing really changed.
And they said, “It sucks,
But there’s nothing you can do.”
While they got fucked,
I did my best to get used.
We’re still 2 and 0.
We can’t let up,
We can’t let go.

Little Help

I'm half whacked on Benadryll,
shitty brown weed,
and a box of cheap white zinfandel,
And you choose now
to come down on me.
To tell you the god's honest truth,
I never know what to do,
Because I'm never sure what I've done.
And I'm losing
another one of your games,
I'll never win because
I don't know how to play.
You make the calls,
you call the plays.
I didn't drop the ball,
it just got away.
Little help?
Here comes your trademark sigh,
the one that says it all.
It says it's all my fault,
it says it all the time.
I guess I'm just an easy target.
I'm feeling like the fat
retarded kid in dodge ball.
You're keeping my back to the wall.

Lucky

“I used to have it all,” she says,
Each night before she climbs in bed
With Lucky, her blind teddy bear,
And the same old slew
Of white-knight-mares.
Her cat’s keep dying
And she swears that there’s
no reason why
They won’t eat
When she walks by
And she says, “Yeah, I feel alright,
But I think I’ve got a cold.
I’d love to go
But there’s just too much to do.”
And you can't ask,
Because she's been told,
And she's worried about you.
It sucks to be afraid of life,
And never seem to find the time
to die.
She turns the lights down low,
And crawls into that place she goes
Where nothing seems to bother her
But the air she breathes.
And she always seems.
She always seems to be,
But never is.

Inventory

I got a thank you note
from an old dead friend.
It said, “Thanks for thinking of me,
They’ll be thinking of you next.”
I got a valentine
From an old girlfriend.
She said, “I think about you often,
But I’m dying to forget.”
I got an old dead letter,
It’s one I wrote to me myself.
It says, “I’ll write when I get better.”
And I haven’t written yet.
It’s like a tattoo carved
With a dull and rusted needle.
You stay drunk enough,
It only hurts a little.
But it eats at you non-stop,
Like bird shit
On a rag-top.
I got three cracked ribs
That I re-crack every year.
I guess I’ll never really learn,
To take it easy on the stairs.
I got a hole in me
That I tried to fill with booze.
I can’t quite top it off,
But it makes a damn fine swimming pool.
I got 32,000 tugs of tar in my lungs.
I’ve hosted 2200 Russian quarts in my gut.
And I’ve walked my own damn dog,
Around 16,000 times.
I’ve smoked twice as much as I spanked,
Less than a tenth of what I drank,
Quart-wise.

Worn

It’s not the years,
It’s all the mileage.
It’s not the tears,
It why you cry them.
It’s not the distance,
Or the tolls.
It’s the condition
Of the roads,
That wears it out.
It wears it out.
It’s not the screams,
It’s all the silence.
It’s not the hate in your grey eyes,
It’s how you hide it.
It’s not the harsh of your, “fuck you,”
It’s the hollow,
“I love you too.”
That wears it out.
It wears me out.
On the outside,
It’s fine.
On the outside everything shines.
But inside,
It’s dying.
Inside…
It’s all worn out.

Slider Game

You're flawed,
So deep it hardly shows.
Perfection to the stone,
But it eats your mind away.
You're sick and you know it,
You feel yourself growing down,
It's a slider game,
You're obsessed and it's lame
You know you'll never figure it out.
But you picked it up,
Now you can't,
Put it down.
Hey corduroy kid,
It's all slide or it's all skid.
You can hide your hands in your toughskins man,
But your palm's already been read.

Austin 66

Of all the little cuts
That carved me into me,
It’s your scars show the most,
You may have cut too deep.
They taught me how to hurt.
They taught me how to love.
You taught me something worse,
You taught me how to turn it off.
It’s a crazed cavity,
A little pocket of numb
You passed on to your son,
With love from dad.
Another hand me down sociopath.
It’s in the slow death
You always feared would find you.
It’s in the cold fish
That’s lying there beside you.
It’s in the sucking sound
you hear in the shower every day.
Watching your hair
Chase the soap-scum,
Chasing your love,
Down a cum-clogged drain.

Fine Young Man

For weeks now I’ve been breathless,
Two years with my tail between my legs.
And no one knows this,
But I’m not sure of half the things I said.
A born romantic,
But the cynic clown was bound to take the stage.
A sorry spastic,
The rag-tag man sits down
And comes of age.
Maybe I’m spent,
But I don’t think so.
No there’s got to be more to me.
It’s just a phase,
I’ll get better,
I’ll get back up on my feet.
It’s a goddamn fine young man
I kill today.
His only fault was vast shortsightedness,
He thought it would go away.
Someone help me tear his shit down off the walls,
It’s all the same retarded nonsense,
Jesus-complex carryall.
And I don’t need to be forgiven,
The fool was bucking for the grave.
He worshiped tired martyrs,
Pacify to hide the rage.
It’s a goddamn fine young man
I’ve killed today.
His only fault was vast shortsightedness,
He thought it would go away.
And maybe it has,
Now that he’s gone.
But I can’t help but feel ripped off,
It took me far to long
To figure out where I’m not.
Slow burn away,
I finally found the strength to fade.

3 Sheets

I’m sailing three sheets to the wind,
On a boat I built
with rubber bands and Popsicle sticks.
And the whole thing floats askew,
But it’s the best that I can do.
And I don’t feel scared.
I really don’t feel anything.
I did my best to stay,
But there’s no room on shore for me.
I’m the kind they’d medicate,
And I’d rather drown at sea.

Rusted

Could be the firelight,
Dancing to the highway sound.
Could be the $2.99 blood of Christ
Getting passed around.
Could be a county fair,
From somewhere way down south,
Caught a north-east wind,
And decided to hang around.
Could be the young John Hunt
And his famous five string Yamaha,
Throwing the perfect words,
At the perfect song.
It’s just an old guitar
With rusted strings,
But tonight It feels like everything
Depends upon the way
It creeks and moans.
It’s like the part of you that had to leave
Is finally tugging on your sleeve,
And pointing down the road
That leads back home.

Recorded in the Designated Smoking Area at 12 Demers throughout 2003. The songs were born in the midst of a crash course in home ownership, and assembled on the back porch or during the idiot-ridden commute.

Show Lyrics

Intro

Instrumental

Home Remedy

It's a long walk home,
and your feet and your head
are already sore.
And the telephone is ringing
back home by your bed.
So you figure you'll make the most
of each painfull step.
It's allright,
you've got your own remedies,
ashtrays full of burned out memories,
And things you wish you'd said
turning cartwheels round your head.
And it's all night
cause it's all that you know,
Always to drunk to drive,
Too dumb to let go
of the voices in your head
as they lay you down to rest.
on the floor by your word,
with a coat for a quilt.
in the ashes you dropped
and the liquor you spilt.
and the voices in your head
choose to ignore you.
It sounds insane
but it feels so right.
Your incremental suicide
is all that keeps you alive.

Press 1

She said,
"I'm still not sure exactly why I'm calling.
I know you never answer the telephone.
And I guess by now all my plants are dying.
Your thumbs were never green,
just stained with nicotine.
And your hands
were always cold.
And I don't know why
I feel like I should explain myself.
Each bruise is worth
at least a thousand words.
But the worst part of it all
is that I couldn't help but call to say
tonight I won't be coming home.
Tomorrow night I won't be coming home.
One of the nurses on my floor
said she could help me.
said her sister runs this place
somewhere upstate.
She said if I go back to you
next time you'll kill me-
It's a home for battered wives.
Is that what I've become?
How could you do that
to someone you said you loved?
How can you do this,
to someone you say you love?
But I remember how it was
before it started.
You used to sing,
You Are My Sunshine,
to me.
Then the whiskey got you mean,
and you forgot how to sing.
I can't remember
when you started swinging.
It was only every once in a while
you'd start to swing.
If you'd just give up the booze,
and pick up the telephone,
tomorrow I'd be coming home to you.
Just pick up the telephone
and tomorrow I'll be home,
Tomorrow
I'll be home
with you.

DKNY Bag

She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles,
smiles.
She's got zanex for anxiety,
And Prozac to kill the poetry.
A little adavan to wash away
The dreams the zoloft can't erase.
And perkacets when all the others fail.
She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles,
smiles.
She talks about her drug abuse,
Her battles with the booze.
But now she's thirteen years
Clean and Sober.
She packs up her troubles
in her dkny bag,
and smiles,
smiles,
smiles.
While the old men at the bar
watch terrified.

Sorry

I tripped over
a line you drew in the sand.
With so many lines,
there's nowhere to stand.
It's a minefield of consequences,
a battle of wills,
and I'm defenseless.
You can only say sorry
so many times
before you start to choke
on your swallowed pride.
My apologies
are just your means of keeping score.
I'm not sorry any more,
I'm all done.
I guess you've won.

Idiot Bliss

In the pallet bonfire light
you drink warm beer
and watch them fight,
The meatheads and the stoned,
the jocks and the drones,
the bullies and the bruised,
the useless and the used.
And all the pretty girls
are stuck with simple thoughts.
And all the simple boys
are hung with mammoth cocks.
And all the small-pricked,
thoughtful clowns like you,
are bound to fall in love with booze,
because you fell in love
then lost her
to a blissfull idiot.
You're drowning in the deep end
of the gene pool.
With all the poets and the altruistic artist fools.
The lifeguard can't swim,
he just sits there
and grins
in idiot bliss.
In the bar's forgiving light,
you drink cheap gin
and watch them fight.
The yuppies and the tools,
the knaves and the fools,
white collars and blues,
the useless and the used.
And all the pretty girls
are stuck with simple lives.
And all the simple boys
are fucking each others wives
And all the drunken,
thoughtful clowns like you,
Are divorced but still in love with booze,
because you fell in love
then turned into
a blissful idiot.

About You

Poorly staged breakdowns
and passive attacks.
You count all your friends
on the knives in your back
you give them a twist,
rub salt in your wounds,
It's all about you.
The chip on your shoulder
is painstakingly carved,
and proudly displayed
like a toddlers first scar.
It's your red badge of outrage,
Your cracker-jack tattoo,
Its all about you.
When they're tired of asking
what's the matter.
What comes after?
What'll you do with your days.
When that last damp shoulder
shrugs you off.
When there's no one to hear you complain.
What'll you do with your days?

Blind Faith Trips

It's funny how it falls away,
the colors start to bleed,
the pattern starts to fade.
Until you wonder
if you've ever been sure.
You can't remember
what it meant,
or who you did it for.
And the shadows
grow longer by the hour,
The blind faith trips,
and the sweet taste sours.

Requiem

You'd cut the clothesline down if you could,
Let you're clean laundry
roll round the neighborhood.
Then you'd write clever songs,
about the dead spots on lawns,
and the havoc
your wardrobe
had wrought.
But most of your neighbors
have guns.
They drink more than they think,
and they don't drink enough.
So you smoke cigarettes,
sit and stare at the fence,
and pretend
that you don't
want to run.
And the calluses soften with age.
The sweet gentle scars
from your third hand guitars,
are lost like the music you made,
the dive-bar stool muse,
and the youth
you were bound to mislay.

Recorded in the Rubber Room during the Summer of 2001. Nate Graziano leant his verse, and a small portion of his liver to the project. It’s his spoken word that finally tied everything together. The songs are mostly older ones that had only been heard on a few muddy 4-track tapes.

Show Lyrics

Eriam

Everything has changed somehow,
The stable ones have broken down,
Now all I am is out of bounds
and tired of looking in.
Tell me dear what would your parents think,
Of this helpless child
with his self-cut hair and drunken grin?
Am I strange enough to fit into rebellious tendencies?
I'm on my knees,
The courtier of courtless kings.
There you are, and here I am,
Ereiam.
My parents thought I might be someone.
I'm sorry mom,
sorry dad.
Sorry everyone who gave a damn for me.
Hell that ain't bad,
I'll build a tune around my lethargy.

12 Steps

I'm still too uptight,
to hold your head responsibly.
The shit I've learned to hide,
has crept inside and learned to cripple me.
I'm pregnant with the stench of my apologies.
The little things get big,
You feed him right,
the kid grows long and taught and wiry,
He grabs the stool beside me,
And we laugh the drunken revelry
of the next self-helpless group.
Twelve steps from the bar to the stoop,
To your front door,
locked tight again.
Eventually, you'll let me in
to see the idiot exposed,
Full blown and swaying
in the glare of your dad's new track lighting.
And the idiot sways inviting.
The idiot sways,
and a fly on the wall would fly away,
A little too bored with the little we say
When we're faced with the closing speeches,
Bite your tongue,
speak your pieces.
I'm just a child,
I am certainly subservient.
I'm just a child,
I am certainly self serving.

Slider Game

You're flawed,
So deep it hardly shows.
Perfection to the stone,
But it eats your mind away.
You're sick and you know it,
You feel yourself growing down,
It's a slider game,
You're obsessed and it's lame
You know you'll never figure it out.
But you picked it up,
Now you can't,
Put it down.
Hey corduroy kid,
It's all slide or it's all skid.
You can hide your hands in your toughskins man,
But your palm's already been read.

Enough for Everyone

She slit her wrists again last Sunday,
It wasn't that deep,
she wasn't that lonely.
She was only waiting for the Cosby Show to go away.
And Teri's not bad when she's giving head,
When she first wakes up
and when she goes to bed,
But in between she's got all these things to say.
She put it up on a pedestal,
Like the cracker-jack prize,
her thighs are lined with gold.
And if you've got the pick
and a torch-light helmet,
If you're not too quick,
and you're not that eloquent,
You can be the first one in,
You can be her first big disappointment.
And where do the bad days go?
They crawl between her legs.
But each night's a brand new start,
Each man's a brand new bed.
I'm just drunk enough
To think that this whole scene might be contagious.
And I'm sane enough to want to save myself.
Man, her eyes got cold,
everybody says so.
But if you spread it out thin enough,
There's enough for everyone.

Last Row

All the clowns are restless tonight,
As the brittle moonlight wanes a proud banality.
Another voice stands up,
The crowd sits poised to take her down,
Her hands sweat,
her voice breaks,
And the wounding laugh rings out.
Hey sick grace,
you sounded great tonight.
I loved the way you sought to hide your eyes in your chin.
And if you'd let me in,
then you and I could walk away.
Slip, soft, warm and dark away.
Her voice hung taught like memory,
As she scanned the crowd for some sign of recognition,
Someone who had listened.
And I sat, loaded, cocked and harmless,
Afraid to meet her eyes because, who was I?
Hey sick grace you sounded great tonight.
I loved the way you turned calm, collected, and cried.
And once you've learned that they don't mean anything at all,
They haven't got the time.
Then you and I can walk away.
Were I a finer fool,
I'd learn to keep my insight mine.
It's the same sad golden rule,
Your silence is a virtue.
And I'd swallow my distaste,
But it's so hard to keep it down.
It's hard to keep it down.
The first row wants the knowing grin,
The third row wants free beer.
The last row's halfway through the door.
The last row's halfway home.

Held Together

It's all held together
with quick secret smiles and magic gray eyes.
And now I remember
why I stayed alone for such a long time.
Because it hurts when you're here,
And it hurts when you're gone.
Shut my head up with
That look that scares the words from me.
I don't want to think about anything,
I just want to lie in your arms.
It's all held together
by one restless night that I can't throw away.
And now I remember,
The greater the pleasure, the deeper the pain.

Jenn

Instrumental

Sperm

Mom I still have sperm.
You know, that seed that
We both thought to be defective.
Turns out that shit swims to beat the band.
And if I talked it up enough,
I think you'd be amazed at
The crazy shit I'm thinking.
Your little boy just made a little man.
I played scissors-paper-stone,
Caught a tiger by the toe,
Now I'm shit scared,
I know they fuck you up,
Your mom and dad.
The first time they had me by the balls,
The doctor asked me, "Cough,"
And I said, "No, but sometimes I have headaches."

Starlet

Hands slip the cotton down,
Good intentions, wrapped around your ankles,
Bracelet tangled in the fray.
Listless, roaring starlet,
The vodka tonic spilled casually,
And a laugh like breaking glass.
But everybody laughs, reserved and impartial.
You're just two drinks from heaven,
You're three sheets from hell.
You're better than gone,
It's purple haze.
You love the dancers,
You hate the craze.
You sweat the music, serpentine.
Out of step and out of time.
You're all that you can do.
But Sarah's on fire tonight,
Like one of those cars in the breakdown lane.
The neighbors all gather 'round,
To soothe the burn and feed the flames.
She's dressed to catch the eye of desperate middle age,
The losers and their wives,
And the congregation sways to the Bee Gee's wounded choir,
The ice-cubes dance.
The Dead Ones perspire, ever so slightly.
It's only a thought,
It's one drink,
One night.
It can't be helped.
We're not ourselves.
We can't be helped.

Burn

Fare thee well,
We'll cut it out we'll light it up.
And who could tell what we'd become?
So burn motherfucker burn,
Give us the heat of your dying.
We'll teach you all we've learned.
We don't sleep.
We are the light,
We are the way,
We're handing you judgment day.
So burn motherfucker, burn.
Burn motherfucker, burn.

Twenty Minutes

I gave in to all those useless flowered verses,
Brainwashed by Neil Simon's heroines.
I should've guessed
I should've slept.
I never should have listened.
I should've known that no one ever thinks that quick.
I feel like a child,
You make me want to seem repugnant.
But I'm on trial,
A hanging jury of your fears.
I know I'm beat.
I know enough to plead the least of my offenses.
I'll be right in.
And there were times
When you would smile the brilliant grin
Of morning passion.
My skinny arms couldn't hold you strong enough.
But now there's times when you don't speak,
And I can feel the tension building.
I'll be outside,
Come and find me when you're through.

Brittle Pair

The whole thing was fairly discrete,
Just a car crash in calm beige relief.
The victims all tastefully maimed,
The crowd practiced holy restraint.
And you and I, we were charming, bland, and arrogant.
We each played the scene to a tee,
Hopelessly weak and secretly confident.
The brittle pair sits down,
Safe in the knowledge there's no one around.
The house lights flicker and dim,
The crowd rushes out, the guilt rushes in.
And in the silence her voice seems unkind,
As she breathes her closing line,
"Who am I this time?"

Recorded in the new “Rubber Room with a view” where digital and analog, drum machine and banged-on things, vodka and whiskey, fought a half-assed war of frail alliances and technical difficulties. Summer 2000.

Show Lyrics

Dawn Was Bound to Break

In a ritualized diversion,
she turns their heads like cream.
Wearing quiet grace like boredem,
she grins a playful dampened dream.
But Dawn was bound to break,
I pity the love she leaves.
How pretty, the love she leaves.
She tears the wallflowers down.
The pretty punks come dancing round and round.
She says, "Keep me dancing still,
That I may stay a sober man,
While others drink their fill."
And she knows just when to quit,
"There, there, my sweet, our love will keep."
And she gives it up again and again.
All's fair in tangled hair and lucid dreams my darling, dear.

252 Elm

Nobody said no,
so we walked right in.
Some of us staggered,
but most of us grinned.
We had shit in our hair,
Schlitz in our guts,
and spittle on our chins.
We were the slick suburban sons,
just something our folks had done.
All of my friends were built for speed,
and the bar was just a setting for our wetter dreams.
We got high before school,
and at lunch, and at home.
We got high all day, every day.
We drank our fathers' booze,
we played our mothers' games.
We were never less confused,
but we were always in our way.
All of my friends were the latest scene,
and the bars were overrun with fake I.D.s.
Tony stayed drunk,
he carves his name in bars with his teeth.
Nicky found god then Nicky found crack
in the same sick fucking week.
Did you hear how Duncan went queer?
And every night is class reunion hell
At 252 Elm.

Every Bar

It's dark, and the man I used to be
is busy throwing darts at your memory.
Judging from the pain behind my eyes,
I'd say he's missing almost every time.
I've got a bottle and an armchair,
I'm all dressed up and going nowhere.
So tonight, I'm gonna sit at every bar in this town,
and drink one for the way you pissed me off
when you were still around.
Somewhere there's a girl
with a smile like the fourth of July,
a body like a long, cold drink,
when she laughs it's all summertime.
And somewhere there's a guy
who thanks god every day,
because that girl has finally gone away.

Terra Cotta

Lined up where the sanity stops
and you and I begin,
my past crimes stand like housewives
as the new slight stumbles in.
And it's wrong to blame specific aches
for a general state of sore,
when all you need is less of me,
and all I've got is more.
It's your turn, It's fucked up anyway.
It doesn't matter why.
It doesn't matter what I have to say.
We skated on the all and all,
arm in arm,
until we carved it away.
We cut the sit-com down to one thin line,
it's where you smile while you say,
"Sometimes, terra cotta's just clay."
You said, "Sometimes, terra cotta's just clay."

Poe

You buried all the hatchets you had.
Now you're out back,
digging like a blind man's dreams.
If I laugh now, I'll die first,
Another love'll rest in pieces, So Poe-etiquette-ly.
Your tell-tale heart's been beating like a drum.
My one good eye is eyeing you, and you,
you seem a little high-strung.
Amontillado on your breath,
murder in your beautiful eyes.
If you buried all the hatchets you had,
Why do I feel like I've been stabbed?

That Song

The cigarette smoke dances ballet in the air,
paints shadows on the wall
and a halo round his thinning hair.
And the dawn falls down, stinking of gin.
Another night dies, and the mourning begins.
He figures he should get some rest
or another glass of something like hope,
when a bird on the wire outside clears its throat.
It's a song that he's heard before,
but he can't remember the words.
It was all about life, or love, or god,
or a beautiful girl, in a beautiful car.
And he tries to sing along,
but he can't get it right because he can't get it wrong.
The food sucks, unless you're eating the beer.
She says, "The world's full of assholes, and they all dine here."
The ones who bust her hump the most
tend to tip the least.
It's all stale booze, stale jokes, and grease.
And she thinks about cashing out,
going home and cashing in,
when the game goes off and the jukebox kicks in.
And you try to sing along,
but you can't get it right because you can't get it wrong.
It goes,
"Shut it all out,
Shut it all off,
Shut it down."

Palmistry

She held out my hand
and made believe the lines were hers.
She choked on her laughter
and said, "If this is all I'm worth,
I'm gonna get myself a razor blade
and carve away the mess you've made,
these empty, wasted lines you've cut."
I said, "Break the skin, and graft the bone,
Just clean me up and take me home.
Because I'm the hero when I'm stoned,
and if I've never been all that brave,
I've never been one to be saved."
Her hand was shaking slightly
as she brought the scalpel down,
and her surgical Swiss Army
mapped the piss-ant to the crown.
"Your heroes should be fools," she said,
"and your gods should all be clowns.
Your death should be senseless,
and your life should be a strange parade of sound."
When the blood was slow to dry,
she offered me a cigarette.
She said, "Do you feel changed?"
And I said, "Yes,
but then I always have."

Frail Alliance (acoustic)

Splitting hairs with a chainsaw,
making my spirits fight.
It's a pitiful day,
a pharmaceutical night.
But no pain is no pain.
I've got my head in my hands,
my dick's in my pants,
and my gut's picking up the slack.
I could booze a little more,
I could screw until I'm sore,
But I'll never get my stomach back.
And I'd hate to fail such a frail alliance,
But I'll never be the kind of friend that you needed today.
Fitting in is kinda seeping out of you.
I know the choice is mine to make.

Mercy

They're drinking in The Church Of His Mercy And His Sword
to the soul of Dan Shadowback.
When the young priest sways, is it grief, is it grace,
or a taste from old Dan's flask.
There's laughter and smoke in the air,
whiskey and tears on the floor.
And the widow can't be found,
could be drunk, could be drowned,
could be slamming old Dan's pine door.
The bartender says, "I've never met anybody sane,
nobody goes to heaven, they all get carried away."
"He was a damn fine man,"
says Johnny From the Band
with his right foot on the rail.
"Yeah," says Jacks as he raises his glass,
"but the dumbass was born to fail."
And the jukebox breaks their hearts,
as another round warms their souls.
"It's funny," Billy says,
"but when you bury a friend,
you drop a lot of you in the hole."
They're drinking in the Church Of His Mercy And His Sword
to a dawn that's slow to break.
'Cause dan's found god and I wouldn't take the odds,
today, I'd bet your god sleeps late.

Ya Home?

When you held your head high,
the sun felt unreal.
It warmed till it burned you,
you blistered and peeled.
So you went inside,
and the sun went away.
It started to rain then,
it's been raining for days.
The plants on your window sill
have withered and died,
while the rain fell behind them,
it was raining outside.
Angel, if you're in there,
come on out.
The sky's still full of thunder clouds.
You've been waiting on rainbows,
you've been wasting away.
So tonight,
we'll just pray for rain.
There's a part of me that's dying,
and a part that's dead,
the kid who wants to love you,
and the clown that did.
It's a locket full of love,
in a pocket full of hate.
It's the push, come to shove,
come to slow decay.

Siren Song

Drunken feet stumble through the wasteland.
Ghosts of breath tremble in the cold.
Filthy streets struggle with the moment,
while shadows mark the progress of my soul.
So what's it like to be alone?
How does it feel to be alone?
Can you bear to be alone?
I just want to be alone.
Remember smoking in your one-room mansion?
We spoke of growing old,
becoming gods.
Divinity's just a product of our passions
And in the end,
it's just another job.
Siren song,
you're always there.

Recorded in the Rubber Room in the spring of 1999. No animals were hurt in this soul searching anal probe, and no souls were saved. A wash.

Show Lyrics

Jacked

Frozen in the headlights,
the wide-eyed dear smiles,
jacked on cheap draft beer,
While the idiot accelerates,
pushing shots of schnapps,
peddling sweet cliches.
And the pretty little girl
in the silly yellow dress
will never save you from yourself.
But the less she talks,
the more your sure,
you can turn her into someone else.
God save the idiot praying
in the breakdown lane.
The devil take us all,
we're all the same.
All she wants to be
is something sweet,
And all you want to be
is in her pants,
All you really need
is something sweet,
But easy is easier.

Happy Hour

Though I hung my squandered promise
on the bedpost by your head,
Whispered low, "I think I'm dying."
"Does it hurt?" was all you said.
And when I finally felt less damaged,
buying quintessential rounds,
You'd gone fishing for psychosis,
you were nowhere to be found.
You cook it up, and I toss it back,
I start to choke, you start to laugh,
But I don't know,
It doesn't go away.
You'll say I brought it up, but I think you took it wrong,
And it's happy hour all goddamn weekend long.
If I've ever tasted faith, it rang more sour for your kiss.
And though I've never been betrayed,
I'm sure it stings a bit like this.
You were the first lust that I've trusted,
You'll be the last love I endure,
You'll call it space, I call it war.
You said, "There's a time for talk, there's a time for sleep,
and goddamn it,
you look tired."

Fine, we'll sue for damages,
I'm too tired to apologize tonight.
We'll shut each other out,
you take the bed,
I'll take the couch.
It's the ease of two TVs
and a kitchen in between us
where your "Melrose" fights my "Night Court"
on a cold linoleum floor.
And you,
You're still beautiful.
You'll try to understand a man
who drinks too much,
who thinks too much,
And never does the things he's supposed to do,
While I try to understand a girl
who used to smile.
And I try to figure out just what I'm doing,
and what it is I've done to you.
And you,
You're still beautiful.

Desperate Sigh

"Fuck off,"
a sentimental scribble on a postcard
that may have found its way to your door.
I felt like saying so much more,
but there's so little room to write in.
So let's us let bygones be bygone again.
You're old tormentor needs a friend.
And you're about as close as I get.
See, there's this question
that's been rattling' around my mind,
Is it a matter of taste or just a matter of time?
Am I driven to the girl with the desperate sigh,
or do I drive them to it?
So how's tricks?
I hear you're entertaining all the up and coming pricks,
I've always said you have a knack
for taking more than you could give back.
But don't get me wrong, dear.
You'll always be the purr in my verse,
The witless din behind my sick pop songs.
And I guess I'll never forget
the way the weight of your sigh could shake my bed.

God Rains

This is how I've kept my head wound tight,
Lie to lie, numb to numb,
and drunk to stumbling drunk.
A little bit of faith goes a long, long way,
But it's a dangerous thing in the hands of a man like me.
God rains, it cuts like your paper dolls.
The silhouette charms till you see the blood.
You never feel the paper cut.
And your sick love, your sick truth,
is the only thing I can't see through.
You're the only thing that hurts me now.

Foul

Darling don't get too close tonight,
something's gone foul in me.
I haven't any use for your, "It's all right."
I've little use for anything.
And the lazy thoughts play torture with my head,
driving solace from our bed.
And the slip-shod angel bats her eyes,
Sweet eloquence will hide tonight,
from the derelict stabs
of a man who knows his time has past him by.
Pour me out damp and cold,
When the bitter runs dry,
there's forlorn, weak, and sick,
to fill our glasses with.
Lay me down, Juliet,
where your silken hair paints tangles on my chest.
Jesus never had to feel this much.
Everyone smiles,
their grins hang fathomless,
smoky in the air,
The putrescent pose of those who know,
and still don't care.
And every other word's too loud,
and every other drink is laced with acid,
And rancid etiquette screams,
"Jesus, save your Judas, et tu fruitcake"

Stupidly

I guess we'll fall from this thing stupidly,
all flailing arms and bended knees,
When what we should be thinking,
grins a dream and drives us drunk.
It wakes us aching,
It swears tomorrow's just a piece of sleep,
begs the permanence of strained release,
and another drink to score the crease
Between tonight and You and Me.
Shitfaced and brilliant,
with a swizzle-stick-halo,
and a long, loud laugh.
If I piss you off,
that's just part of my charm,
Rest assured, love,
tomorrow I'll regret right before I sleep it off,
I'm not holier than thou,
I'm holier than god,
And only half as mean a drunk.
I've got a frontal lobotomy
in the bottle in front of me,
and way too much to say,
I don't mean to hurt you all that much,
but I'm beginning to think
that you're just as fucked as everybody else,
You can call it yet another schizophrenic bout,
you can color me drunk,
You can color me sick,
Just color me in,
because I'm fading out.

Virulence

Virulence bends,
it buries its head in need.
Habit breaks down,
falls in love,
and becomes diseased.
The spirit twists,
it writhes as it leaves.
And the gold from the dawn is the only thing you need.
Love begs,
I bow down,
And I fall like that gold upon the ground.

The Warm Line

You've worn out everybody else
with all your morbid talk of dropping out.
And while I may have come to help, love,
I didn't come to talk you down.
You've had your share of sympathy,
I guess I'm here to bury your doubt.
Angel, put the gun away,
the suicidal things you say
all sound like wolf to me.
We'll braid up all your crazy thoughts,
I'll tie the knot and we'll swing.
We'll cut the telephone wire
to circumvent your second-guessing second nature.
We'll skip the suicide note,
they've got all the ones you wrote before.
Tonight you'll get it right,
you kill the lights,
I'll lock the door.
Angel, put the gun away,
the suicidal things you say
all sound like wolf to me.
We'll braid up all your thoughts,
I'll tie a lazy knot and we'll swing.
Maybe I'm sick, or just a little bit colder,
But tonight you've cried on the wrong shoulder.
A pact is a pact,
but in suicidal circumstance,
your past belies your word.
So don't be surprised when the gentleman beside you,
kicks your chair out first.

Brunch

I'm feeling like I stubbed my toe
on a chest of gold,
It hurts like hell
but I'm incredibly wealthy.
Hail, holy mother Bloody Mary.
I've got $67.50 in crumpled up bills
from the paycheck I killed last night.
I woke up dumb,
but I'm working on a numb that'll carry me
straight through Sunday tight,
A red Madonna for brunch,
a vodka tonic with lunch,
God knows everybody's laughing with me.
Hail holy mother,
Where's The Whiskey.
We'll be spackled by three,
all black-n-tans and dry-heaves,
I'll call you later, Man,
she's looking to get laid,
I'm fresh out of smokes,
my life is just an inside joke,
This one's on me,
Where the hell are my car keys?

Ruby

(Kenny Rogers cover)
You've painted up your lips,
you've rolled and curled your tinted hair.
Ruby are you contemplating going out somewhere?
The Shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down,
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town
It wasn't me that started that old crazy asian war,
But I was proud to go and do my patriotic chore.
And yes, it's true that I'm not the man I used to be...
Oh Ruby
I still need some company.
Its hard to love a man whose legs are bent and paralyzed
And the wants and the needs of a woman your age, Ruby I realize,
But it won't be long I've heard them say until I'm not around
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town
She's leavin' now 'cause I heard the slammin' of the door
The way I know I've heard it slam one hundred times before
And if I could move I'd get my gun and put her in the ground
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town
Oh Ruby
For god-sake turn around

Dead Letter

If I were young,
I'd leave here in the morning.
You'd never know I went.
You'd never know I kept on going.
If I were older,
I guess I wouldn't mind
giving up,
giving in,
getting older.
But lately the calendar seems to be pissed off at me,
It's counting off all of my dreams,
screaming see you later sucker,
I'll write when I feel better.
I'll scribble off another dead letter.
If I were younger,
I never would've stepped into the promises I've kept,
I would've seen them coming.
When I got older,
I'd wrap you in regret
and curse the day I let your perfect smile slide by me.
Twenty-hundred minutes of pre-recorded bitchings,
taped ejaculations,
and drunken confessions...
It's a wash.

Recorded in the Rubber Room during the summer of 1997 with the least used 4-track I’ve ever owned, three guitars, a tin whistle, one harmonica, a wine rack, several saran-wrapped salad bowls, an ocean of vodka, a lot of whiskey, and some weed. Foul Berth was kind of a peak as far as my cassette 4-track recording was concerned. After struggling to finish Wetbrain on a dying machine, I’d decided it was finally time to break down and buy one. All of the previous 4-tracks I’d used were someone else’s, either on loan or graciously handed down to me. I still couldn’t afford a new one, but the used Tascam porta-studio I bought from Pro Audio in Watertown was in much better shape than any of the others I’d had at my disposal. It’s captured on the album cover of Foul Berth which is a photo of the Rubber Room right around that time.

While all of the other albums had filled one side of a 90 minute cassette, or at most both sides of a 60, Foul Berth was its own 90 minute production. I was newly married and inspired. I actually stumbled upon the album’s title while on our honeymoon in Ireland. It was in Dingle or Doolin, one of the coastal towns we visited that I saw the sign “Foul Berth” on a dock. What was in essence a no parking sign for boats, struck me as a phrase that could be applied to multiple situations ranging from an adulterous dalliance, to the tilt-a-whirl of emotions in a delivery room. Either way, I thought it sounded awesome.

Most of the songs were very new, although some, like “Drown Her” and “Filmstrip” had been kicking around for quite a while. “Filmstrip” had actually been recorded a couple of years earlier in Jenn’s Alston bedroom. The percussion and Gilligan’s Island episode heard throughout the song were actually recorded with one mic in front of the TV while I banged on the entertainment center with a couple of vitamin bottles. “Baby’s Breath,” on the other hand was made up and recorded on the spot one night in the Rubber Room. The drums that became kind of the focal point of that song were actually salad bowls that I covered in saran wrap, close mic’d and played with a pair of swizzle sticks. Granted, I did get a little carried away with the tin whistle on “Alternative,” and “Summer” goes on longer than it has any right to, but I was in the middle of a seriously productive stint of creativity.

The soundbites are from Ishtar. After all what could possibly, more perfectly tie together an idiot songwriter’s collection of songs, than a movie about two idiot songwriters. It’s a great movie and if you don’t like it, you probably haven’t seen it.

Show Lyrics

Haiku

She isn't one to keep it simple,
Another cigarette burns.

Frail Alliance

Splitting hairs with a chainsaw,
making my spirits fight.
It's a pitiful day,
a pharmaceutical night.
But no pain is no pain.
I've got my head in my hands,
my dick's in my pants,
and my gut's picking up the slack.
I could booze a little more,
I could screw until I'm sore,
But I'll never get my stomach back.
And I'd hate to fail such a frail alliance,
But I'll never be the kind of friend that you needed today.
Fitting in is kinda seeping out of you.
I know the choice is mine to make.

Summer

Say goodbye to summer boys,
Autumn's at the window.
Your sweatshirt days will slowly start to fade.
This breeze will learn to cut you,
the sun will leave you cold.
The chill that paints your cheeks will fill your soul.
It's bound to sound a little bit mean,
we're harmless when we sleep,
we're heartless when we dream.

Complacency

Tugging on the hem of complacency,
the song ends,
the dreams dead,
The first taste is free.
Swilling self assurance,
losing minor keys,
you're locked out,
you're all doubt,
You're all soliloquy.
By the time you got the bullshit all figured out,
you were old enough to lose control.
Half-wit, half-drunk,
all world class clown,
You're not changing,
you're just breaking down.

Idiotic Grin

I left my idiotic grin
in the pocket of your coat.
It found a hole,
Now these side streets are littered with my teeth.
But you never turned around.
I guess you didn't miss the weight,
or hear the sound.
That's the price I pay for leading with my face.
It's a scene that calls for inspiration,
A little "Street Car" appeal.
But I just can't find my motivation.
You just don't seem real.
I keep forgetting how I feel.

Crowded

I'm all nightmares and bomb scares,
anxiety attacks,
and cold death n' taxes.
And it's not fair
that you're not scared too,
whatever happens to me,
Should be happening to you.
If beside you is beside me,
why don't you feel surrounded,
It's getting pretty crowded.
But you don't care,
you're all blank stares.
The whole of your compassion
is a little less inaction.
You trip on your fold-out couch.
You tell me what you think,
what you feel,
But it doesn't mean a thing to me.
I can't be like you are,
I'm not sure anyone should.
Your whacked detachment isn't doing me any good.
Just hold me,
or don't hold me.
Just don't tell me
what you think I ought to do.

Anecdote

The air's gone thick with unfinished thoughts,
Godot has finally come and gone.
The old hat tips its brim,
and the conversation stalls again.
Bring on the anecdote sweetheart,
another timeless classic from your tireless repertoire.
I already know how every one goes,
so please just leave me out.
Sipping on the same old drinks,
saying all the same old things,
I'm tired of pretending I don't know the ending,
Tell me again about the time that your friend got...
Tell me again about you and your friends.
Over and over is done.

She's immune to good news.
Her lips,
a snarl she twists into a grin.
She's right, and I'm wrong again.
Everybody's happy.
And the foundation's bound to sway,
if my idiot pride gets in her way,
My post punk alternative girl.
Her bouncer friend'll get me in.
Her hippie friends'll get me high tonight,
Every other friend's a bar back,
and everybody's in a band
that's about to get signed, and break up.
Everybody's in a band.

Whiter Shade of Pale

(Procal Harum cover)
We skipped the light fandango
Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor
I was feeling kinda seasick
But the crowd called out for more
The room was humming harder
As the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink
And the waiter brought a tray
And so it was that later
As the miller told his tale
That her face, at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale
She said, "There is no reason
And the truth is plain to see."
But I wandered through my playing cards
And they would not let her be
One of sixteen vestal virgins
Who were leaving for the coast
And although my eyes were open wide
They might have just as well been closed
And so it was that later
As the miller told his tale
That her face, at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale

Foul Berth

Another lie.
The porch light blinds my liquor softened eyes,
and cordons off the night.
My guilty hands find my pockets
in the hopeless dance of nothing's really wrong,
When nothing's right.
Our twisted little understanding;
nothing happened once again,
You try to speak,
but all you do is sigh.
I've always loved the way you say goodbye.
Foul berth,
I shake you off and lie down next to her,
she pretends she's sleeping.
She won't ask when I won't lie.
There's nothing that I can't deny.
She's safe inside the promises I'm keeping.

Weeds

Rock me awake,
my tired angel.
I'll sing your tired soul to sleep.
A song to still the ghosts,
the monsters,
and the madmen.
A song the rag-tag sandman sang to me.
And all these dreams are yours to keep.
Flower, love,
above the nightmare weeds.

Say Goodbye

I'll tell you why I went away,
if you tell me why you hung around.
I never really meant to stay,
but I couldn't figure you out.
Curiosity wrecked the bed,
it closed my eyes and turned your head.
Hello dear, say hi.
Hello dear, say goodbye.
I'll tell you what you think you want to hear,
If you promise to hold me to the word.
I'll show you how I preyed upon your fears,
If you swear that you'll remember what you learn.
All your plans were hopeless dreams,
and none of my words were worth a goddamn thing.
You make it harder than it has to be.

Drown Her

Let it go,
I'm not done sleeping.
I haven't had a chance to gather my defenses,
To kiss your sainted ass.
And how it ever got this weird
is something I can't understand.
Three cheers for my girl,
she cries on demand.
I'm never right,
but slowly, surely,
I work toward the impasse,
And I drown her in my glass.
So here we are again,
the drunken priest and the wounded calf.
You'll ask me where I've been,
and I'll wonder where I am.
All soft now,
just a curtsey and a splash,
And she drowns inside my glass.
Three cheers for my girl,
she broke my fuck me world.
Three cheers for my girl,
she never stood a chance,
I shot faster than she danced.

Reunion Cafe

Grafted to her barstool,
the hard-luck machine spills a steady stream
of fifty cent tips.
And condemnations,
prized and aimless,
pool and flow from the quiver in her lower lip.
Her hard, cold day
deserves a long, dark night.
She's entitled.
And god may damn,
and god may bless,
but the devil buys the next round around here.
It's not sacrilegious,
It's just that we're sick of ourselves,
And we know,
We're not going anywhere,
And we're not going anywhere else.
We were the same kids,
from the same town,
at the same school
on the same playground,
And we might have beat you up,
and you might have put us down,
You might have beat us up,
and we might have put you down,
But we never thought you'd go so far,
and you never thought we'd end up here.
You never thought you'd go so far,
and we never thought we'd end up here.

Filmstrip

There's a filmstrip to my head,
but the frames don't fit the sound,
And the tape's not slowing down,
It's getting eaten.
There's an ashtray by the bed,
with half a pack of cigarettes,
And half a glass of warm regret,
to compliment the soundtrack.
This is not emotion.
This is real life,
It's shot in black and white,
It's painful, It's perfect,
It's standing on the corner, horror-clad.
It's easily ignored.
They slit the sky wide open,
heaven fell out impartial,
And god was all we thought,
but he was far less local.
Holy Vice,
I don't have to watch you leave.

Recorded, drunk and disheveled, in the Rubber Room in the space between 1996 & 1997 on the last two and a half tracks of a dying four-track. There’s a hum throughout this album, lot’s of noise, and a lot of sloppy playing/recording. I can’t blame it all on the condition of the 4-track, although that was definitely part of it. And as bad as some it sounds, it’s still one of my favorite albums. I think I was in a rush to get it recorded. There’s a lot of different songs for me here, I was trying some different things stylistically and just wanted to get them down and into people’s ears, almost like Stuart from Mad TV going, “Look what I can do!” My lo-fi percussion collection was growing, and I started incorporating metal racks duck taped to mic stands that I played with homemade broken guitar-string brushes. I also had one of those rhythm eggs that I’d hold in my pick hand when I recorded the acoustic guitars, or tape to a drum stick while I beat on a wine rack.

You can really hear the faux drums on “Schoolbus”, a song about a girl we knew in high-school. She was a big girl, who was dubbed “Schoolbus” by the group of friends she used to drive to school each day. I want to say her name was Kelly but I can’t be sure. I remember being in the back of her Chevette one night with a few other people. We were cruising down this long straight road, going maybe 50 or so when the driver just threw it in reverse to see what would happen. I don’t think Schoolbus had that many really close friends. Anyway, the song’s pure fiction. I don’t remember her actually burning down the town or anything, but if she had, I guess I would’ve understood why.

“Second Skin” was inspired by a novel of the same name that I found in a trash bin in Cambridge. And “Bly” is mostly a poem by Robert Bly that I added a bit to and built a song around. “Reunion Cafe” felt like a breakthrough song at the time. I remember being really proud of the barroom to schoolyard clique comparisons. I was really proud of the whole album song-wise, and at the same time frustrated with how shitty I thought it came out sound-wise. That kind of thing happens to me a lot. The realization is often a bit of a letdown when compared to the original idea.

The Album cover was created by my friend Scott Remilard, an extremely talented graphic designer and all around great guy. I asked him if he could make me a cover, told him it was going to be called Wetbrain, and he had this for me the next day. I’m still not sure whose head it actually is.

The soundbites are from the film Kicking and Screaming, the 1995 one, not the one with Will Farrel. It’s a great movie if you’re a fan of witty dialogue and social commentary. I think it resonated with me so much because it’s a film about recent college grads and that’s what I was at the time.

Show Lyrics

Wetbrain

Wetbrain, you're all dried up.
You burned out the muse
with your holy confusion bunk.
It's all bad,
you're no Rag Man.
You slipped from prodigy to prodigal,
From pissed off to just plain sad.
You gave up the old bong,
ripped off a new song,
made your little basement tapes.
You stayed home.
You stayed drunk.
Then you whipped out a new song,
wiped out the slush fund.
Drank your little mind away.
It's all gone.
You're all done.

School Bus (The Ballad Of)

Barbie's up in flames,
and loyal Ken is Catching.
The dream house is asbestos free,
and freshly cleaned with gasoline.
And School Bus laughs and laughs and laughs,
while perfection burns,
And the good life starts to look like hers.
The goddamn town is up in flames,
because School Bus finally found a way to say it,
"Thin is out."
She dumped the devil dogs
and their slick corvette,
In the hatchback of her black chevette.
And as she idled down the street,
you might've heard her whisper soft and low,
While the firelight danced on her driver's side window
she said, "That Barbie sure can burn them calories."

Little Help

I'm half whacked on Benadryll,
shitty brown weed,
and a box of cheap white zinfandel,
And you choose now
to come down on me.
To tell you the god's honest truth,
I never know what to do,
Because I'm never sure what I've done.
And I'm losing another one of your games,
I'll never win because I don't know how to play.
You make the calls,
you call the plays.
I didn't drop the ball,
it just got away.
Little help?
Here comes your trademark sigh,
the one that says it all.
It says it's all my fault,
it says it all the time.
I guess I'm just an easy target.
I'm feeling like the fat retarded kid in dodge ball.
You're keeping my back to the wall.

You’re Alone

Switch on the anarchist,
the first true love song.
You're the first to make a fist
and have it all figured out.
There's no doubt the decadence is packed with its appeal
Shut down, dear boy.
Shut down little boy.
Give up the trust fund and bury your radio.
Fill yourself with holes
and cartoon tattoos.
Because you don't believe you're alone.
You're alone.
Hey kid you don't know shit,
welcome to the realm of the tragically hip.
We're all high school cliques
and dropped out derelicts,
Ivy league pricks,
and beatnik chicks,
And we don't believe we're alone.
You're alone.

Second Skin

Dear god my head's an empty place,
as heartless as I am.
As lonely as I choose to be,
As broken as I stand.
All I am is time and swearing,
sit, talk, sin.
Jesus Christ I'm tired of wearing this tattered second skin.
Time is not my friend dear lord,
as holy as I feel.
As day by day, these shakes grow stronger,
I beg my soul to steel.
All my days are waste and waiting,
sit, talk, sin.
Jesus Christ please help me shed this rancid second skin.
And god,
the things I've seen,
all the shit you put me through,
Made a monster out of me,
now I'm a whole lot more like you.

Reunion Cafe

Grafted to her barstool,
the hard-luck machine
spills a steady stream of fifty cent tips.
And condemnations,
prized and aimless,
pool and flow from the quiver in her lower lip.
Her hard, cold day
deserves a long, dark night.
She's entitled.
And god may damn,
and god may bless,
but the devil buys the next round around here.
It's not sacrilegious,
It's just that we're sick of ourselves,
And we know,
We're not going anywhere,
And we're not going anywhere else.
We were the same kids,
from the same town,
at the same school
on the same playground,
And we might have beat you up,
and you might have put us down,
You might have beat us up,
and we might have put you down,
But we never thought you'd go so far,
and you never thought we'd end up here.
You never thought you'd go so far,
and we never thought we'd end up here.

Bly

All the rags she wore,
she wore
for me.

The Haircut

I was waiting on the storm,
a little too loose
a little too sure,
Of my divine exemption.
Was doomed but bound for resurrection.
My hair stayed long
until I fell from god,
or he fell from me,
Or we nodded off.
But I found myself assumed.
I woke up old
and slightly chewed.
And where I used to be wired for sound and torn,
Now I find I'm just numb around the sores.
And everything I used to have to say,
just stained the bar and got wiped away.
The novel got lost in the notebooks.
The poetry has soured to song.
The songs have all gone tuneless,
and the drinks don't last as long
anymore.
You can have your grand gold standard.
You can have your dire responsibilities.
But I swear these goods are damaged,
and I'm taking back my dreams
today.

Recorded in the latent summer of 1996 within the foamy grandeur of the Rubber Room, so named for the mattress foam lining the walls and ceiling. It was recorded on 4-track cassette, and since it was recorded around the same time as “She’s All By Myself,” included much of the same lo-fi percussion. The notable difference being that instead of just hitting a mic with my hand for the kick sound, I started cranking the bass tone pot way up and hitting the mic stand with an empty plastic liter bottle. I’d also purchased an Alesis Nano-verb, which I used on everything and still continue to use today. It gave the percussion on an almost thunderous sound, and the hint of chorus on one of the delay settings evened out my vocals a bit long before auto-tune had reared its ugly head.

Another thing I did on most of these early recordings was to speed up the pitch settings on mixdown. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first, I’d only started playing with the pitch setting because I’d heard you could achieve better fidelity by speeding the tape up when recording. The idea being that if the tape was moving faster it would spread the information out over more tape and lead to greater clarity since you weren’t trying to cram so much sound into what was already a very narrow bit of magnetic media. You couldn’t make the tape wider, but you could in essence make it longer. The offshoot of this was that I wasn’t very consistent about where I set the speed for each recording, so I had to kind of dial it in for each individual song when it came time to mix down. I’ve never had much of a voice, but back then I thought it sounded a little better sped up. So if my voice seems much higher in the early recordings, it’s not all because my vocal chords were not yet as coated in tobacco tar. Some of its just a touch of Alvin and the Chipmunks type studio magic.

I got into some trouble for the first song on this album. “Who Were You Screwing,” was loosely based on a friend’s absence making his heart grow fonder for his ex. He (and she) didn’t find the lyrics quite as funny or clever as I did and apologies were made. Out of anger he wrote a song about me called, “Drunk Irish Poet,” which blasts me lyrically but is such a great song that I couldn’t help but be flattered. Jenn still hates “More Than Booze,” even though I’ve recently proved that song’s sentiment to be entirely true. She’s always maintained that I tended to glorify or romanticize alcoholism in my songs, a point of view I can certainly understand but still deny. For me it was simply a case of that freshman creative writing mantra, “write what you know.” I used to be drunk an awful lot of the time.

The album cover was designed by Scott Remilard, and the photo he used is a baby picture of my cousin Jordan. Of course it wasn’t a baby picture at the time. When I put the album up on MP3.com it was a a fairly recent photo of the boy. As an example of how heart-sickeningly fast time flies, I attended his high school graduation in the spring of 2014.

The soundbites are all from Dog Day Afternoon, an incredible movie from the mid 70’s starring a young Al Pacino. It’s one of my all time favorite films and one that I think everyone should see. If you’ve ever made a dumb decision that you had no choice but to see through till the bitter end, you can relate to this movie. The real hero of the film is the third bank robber who quits immediately after they begin the heist and whom the doomed Sal dismisses with, “Fuck ’em, let him go.”

Show Lyrics

Who Were You Screwing

Sing me the song
of the bottled blonde
and the first class chump,
With a second hand hard on.
Take me inside his puppy dog eyes
and his fair weather lust.
Tell me all about her psycho-scenes,
her ball and chain dreams,
Her total lack of trust.
Then tell me what he misses so much.
It's not about her.
It's not about you.
What you should be thinking about is,
Who were you screwing then,
and who the fuck are you now.
It's not hard to forget,
when the longer you're gone,
the better she gets.
And nothing spells love
like the bitter-sweet sting of regret.
I know you're not blind,
you're just dumb.
A little bit jealous,
and a touch undone.
You only gave up what you couldn't hack.
Monday Morning Quarterback,
you suck.

Stuck

Break out the thumbtacks.
If you crucify me now,
I'll get some rest,
And you'll feel less let down.
My father always said,
"Don't ever let them in your head,
Because they dig things up,
and then they throw things out."
It's like that first, "Oh Shit,"
when the condom slips,
You can't pull out
and you can't push in,
You wonder if you love her enough.
And all you are is stuck.
I'll never be a better man than me.
From here I get old,
I get tired,
I get weird.
From here I get bitter.
It's like the butt that's stuck to your upper lip,
When your hand slips down around the tip,
and you're already burned.
And all it does is hurt.

More Than Booze

I got a little higher than my soap box,
you let your hair down and I cut it off.
And you said to me,
"Man, it's not you,
it's just everything you do,
That pisses me off."
You stepped back and said,
"You're never really sober."
I said, "Relax love,
my liver's getting older than either of us,
It's bound to fail one day,
I'll throw my vodka away when it does."
You don't have to make me choose,
I love you more than booze,
But it loves me more than you.
You said, "You're killing yourself."
I said, "I know, but if I don't, no one else will.
It's a hell of a way to go,
Painless and slow,
there's always time to kill."
It's only my little murders.
It's the only thing that's keeping me sane.
Tell me dear,
is that something you really want to change.

Doctor My Eyes

(Jackson Browne cover)
Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You've gotta help me if you can
Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long
I have traveled through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I've been waiting to awaken from this dream
People go just where there will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it's later than it seems
Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what you see
I hear their cries
Just say if it's too late for me
Doctor, my eyes
Cannot see the sky
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry

Say Goodbye

I'll tell you why I went away,
if you tell me why you hung around.
I never really meant to stay,
but I couldn't figure you out.
Curiosity wrecked the bed,
it closed my eyes and turned your head.
Hello dear, say hi.
Hello dear, say goodbye.
I'll tell you what you think you want to hear,
If you promise to hold me to the word.
I'll show you how I preyed upon your fears,
If you swear that you'll remember what you learn.
All your plans were hopeless dreams,
and none of my words were worth a goddamn thing.
You make it harder than it has to be.

Sin Pathetic

It's not hard to recognize.
It's just a little shattered in your eyes,
And you try to hide it,
but that only draws me in.
Tonight you cry alone.
While you salt to taste your sorrows,
I drown mine out of sight,
in whatever I can find.
You brim, and I'm empty,
I bailed while you were sleeping.
I've been bailing all along,
and now that part of me is gone.
It comes and goes,
I know it does.
I've buried mine,
and now I'm burying yours.
But there's some things we can't bury deep enough.

Pacifier

It's the bending way she grins
To hide the cripple in her eyes,
And the pains she takes to keep me there.
It's a voice like something
Wet and warm and fuzzy.
It's a bit like something real.
I'm always dumb enough to say,
Okay, okay, I'll play.
And when she moves,
She moves like steam.
And when she breaks,
She breaks in waves.
There's something in her head
That makes her think she's sinking.
It's nothing that I've said,
It could be what I'm thinking.
And it's hell to pacify her.
She's underneath the bed,
She says to me, "I'm sinking."
It's nothing that I've said,
It could be what I'm thinking.

Tolulene

We smoked the night,
a kind familiar weed,
And we tried to trade our rented souls for sleep.
But the gods, at best,
were hungry pests,
crouched in worship at our feet.
Our souls weren't worth their tortured births,
And their dreams weren't worth the shit we bleed.
And she said she'd never once closed her eyes.
I was wrong to ask her why,
Because she told me what she meant,
and I haven't closed mine since.
I sit down,
the static rolls gently.
Breakwater sound,
the T.V. set's empty.
She wakes up,
remembers the bad dreams.
There's no one around,
At least they were her dreams.
And honey-chile sleeps,
he sleeps in the hallway.
He feels for the cracks,
He circles the bad days.
And all we want is more and more,
but nobody really knows where the money goes.
She's upstairs writing cold war poetry,
and high school drama club scenes,
She wonders how her love life reads.
And I'm out back in a tolulene haze,
dreaming of the salad days,
I wonder if I'll go away.

Feedings

Sarah flows like water
through the room of sunset curtains,
Where every Jesus loses faith.
She cooks it up and slips it in.
And the feedings begin.
Smokey eyed tapestries
paint hell on her carpet,
Where she crawls toward salvation
through nod-laden hills of lint.
Like the derelict priest in his pulpit,
hailing god for all mankind,
With tightened fist,
and tighter soul,
she's tight and yet sublime.
Surgical snap,
and heaven stands wide open.
God rushes in through the back
of her supple neck.

Recorded in the spring of 1996 in a half-hearted attempt to keep me sane. Wether or not it was successful
(in preserving my sanity that is, commercial success was never really an option), all comes down to perspective.
I can say with a degree of confidence that it did not make me any crazier and was therefore a worthwhile endeavor.
I recorded it at 7 Nichols in Watertown shortly after we moved in, and some of it may have even been recorded at
the end of the Jenn’s bed in Alston. It was all recorded on an old cassette 4-track, with a few radio-shack
and yard-sale microphones, and one sm57. The room it was recorded in had yet to be lined with mattress foam and
dubbed, “The Rubber Room.”

The soundbites are from the Disney film Bedknobs and Broomsticks
in which we meet the post Mary Poppins George Banks, still living in London under the alias, Professor Emelius Brown.
In his new found lust for life, he seems to have left not only his position at the bank, but also that of husband and
father at 17 Cherry Tree Lane. He’s now a street hustler who joins up with a correspondence school witch and
three child refugees from London. With the help of a flying bed, the gang eludes an evil bookseller/gangster/magician,
survives a trip to the Isle of Naboombu and eventually halts a German invasion. It’s a great film in which
real life actors interact with animated characters and the special effects are accomplished chiefly through the use
of thin, barely visible wires.

I’d made several earlier 4-track recordings that were all guitar and vocals, and this was the first album
where I added some percussion. It consisted of a cheap set of bongos and a tambourine that I’d whack with a
drumstick like a snare. On “Certain Again” the “kick” sound is just me hitting a microphone
open-handed and running it through a reverb/digital delay foot pedal. I think that this album and The Salad Days were
originally two sides of one 90 minute cassette tape that I’d copy for anyone who’d listen to it. The cover
art didn’t come along until MP3.com arrived on the scene in the late 90’s and I finally had a cheap way of
distributing my noise to the masses. The photo is a honeymoon pic of Jenn and myself in Ireland, photoshopped to appear
as though poor Jenn is surrounded by a horde of amicable but goofy Dans, which is probably how she still feels from
time to time.

Show Lyrics

She’s All by Myself

Falling like a bad word
from a good kid's mouth.
Landing like the very first bad idea
of the day.
Feeling like a stiff drink,
or two, or three, or four.
Falling apart again.
Coming apart again.
And it bugs her when I just can't hold her,
she tells me that I can't control it.
I guess that I'm just getting older,
and she,
she's all by myself.

Vices

I fell through the cracks,
I've been falling since.
I looked so relaxed,
they took down the nets.
It's never too high,
it's never too loud.
It's never that bad,
If you don't look down.
You can get by,
but the bullshit never ends.
A good man's vices are his only friends.
My epitaph reads like a postcard,
And my silence is defined
by that far away look in her eyes.
But tonight, I'm Fine,
I've got my wettest friend in hand,
I've got my swaying soap-box stance,
The gang's all here,
it's whiskey and beer,
it's vodka and song.
Torn from the body of faith,
my crystal-shard sister and I,
Hear the hum the blood creates,
crashing, crashing.
And squatting in the thundering midst,
the soul rattles perfect time.
It loves the lights, the lines, the bitch.
Crashing, crashing.

Thirteen

She's a corrugated pristine chapel,
with rat-trap, bedroom eyes.
She's strictly hands off,
and cow-lipped kisses.
You'll go to bed stiff tonight
She's caught in thirteen.
Virginal wonder,
stumbling lover,
all thumbs and moans and heat,
and holding back.
But I'm to fine a fool to deflower you.
I know what it's like to lack.

Sane As Me

If we're not falling fast enough,
you can fatten the dosage up.
You can cut with less emphasis,
threaten the pharmacist,
fire with more feeling,
Or triple the feedings.
And if nothing new goes away,
just find us a new game to play.
With nothing to lose,
you can heighten the risk,
we've got nothing to prove,
We gave in to the sickness.
And she says,
"I could've saved Jesus from himself."
Sarah rips wild through the sick winter sky,
She's got blood on her hands and mud in her eyes,
And her hair shines a diamond relief,
she's as sane as you and me.
You buried your god,
we'll crucify ours in good time.
You suffered scriptures and futures,
we're living sutures and science.

Burn

Fare thee well,
We'll cut it out we'll light it up.
And who could tell what we'd become?
So burn motherfucker burn,
Give us the heat of your dying.
We'll teach you all we've learned.
We don't sleep.
We are the light,
We are the way,
We're handing you judgment day.
So burn motherfucker, burn.
Burn motherfucker, burn.

Shove

He get's off,
she wipes the lust from her brow,
she wipes his love from her leg and says,
"I can't see how
you came to be half of what you mean to me.
I used to have my own opinions,
clean flannel sheets,
and my own things to do.
I used to have a voice I saved
for pathetic fools that fuck like you."
It's a short, sharp shove
from want to need, from lust to love.
From fuck you, to fuck me,
to everything I used to be.
And it's a twisted trust,
there is no want,
there is no need,
There is no love,
there is no lust.
It's just the two of us
and a whole lot of hopeless.
He gets up and lights the first sweet J
of the first sick hour of his long dark day,
And says, "Oh baby,
I hate it when you talk that way."
He says, "I think you think too much,
all this bullshit about lust
All this bullshit about love."
He says,
"I think you're just pissed off
Because you didn't get to come."
She says, "You're right."

Certain Again

Erin is on her knees
in the sack-cloth heat of latent afternoon.
She sways still but slightly
to the crazed cicadas moan.
And I, I'm crawling inside her.
I'm touching all her tightly coiled fears.
Misguided messiah,
I'm certain again
In the mad disquiet of summertime,
she stands a pureline quiver.
And I draw the madness out.
I draw the madness from her.

Okay

That wasn't what I meant to say,
it was only meant to hurt.
The devil's at my head again
and he's changing all the words.
We'll laugh about it later,
when we swear that nothing's changed.
You'll wrap your arms around my waist,
and we'll try to smile when you say,
"It's okay."
You're a fool to love a fool like me.
You're a child to still believe
That all the things you thought I was,
are things I still could be.
We'll swear we've got tomorrow,
while we mourn for yesterday.
You'll wrap your arms around my waste
and you'll try to smile when I say,
"It's okay."

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So I had a new album, all recorded and ready to go. In the past I’ve used Tunecore to get my albums into Itunes and whatnot, but they charge artists a yearly maintenance fee for each album which is generally larger than what any of my albums earn in sales. So I switched to CDBaby, which I like. There’s just a flat fee to get your albums into all the online venues and they do take a cut of any sales, but there’s no recurring payment involved. But I started thinking, “What am I after here?” At this point in my life a line from Ishtar comes to mind whenever I think about the business side of music, “You’re old, you’re white… You got no shtick.” I’m not sure I ever had any real shtick to speak of, but I am sure that the chances of my making a living solely from my music, are about the same as the odds that I’ll win the lottery. And I don’t play the lottery. All I really want to do is get the music out there. So I decided I’d just put it up on my site and follow Bandcamp’s lead in letting people name their own price if they feel like paying.

But that meant a bit of a redesign for the old website, which needed it anyway, but ended up taking longer than I figured. I wanted all of the albums to be streamed as well as available for download. Then I wanted all of the old albums to be as close to their original form as possible without a tape deck. I’d dropped most of the soundbites that segued all the old cassette recordings in order to get them into online stores. MP3.Com had enough copyright litigation heading their way without me throwing a quote from Ishtar between every song, but I missed the soundbites. They were always what tied everything together, and were a huge part of the process for me.

I’ll be glad when I’m done with the site. I think it’s taking almost as long as the album.

The Album, that’s the other thing. I wanted to call it “Not the Jazz Guy” because all the albums that I paid Tunecore and CDBaby money to get into Itunes and Spotify, are listed under a different Dan Cray and his trio. He’s the Jazz Guy. I’m not. Now I don’t think he’s getting any huge royalty checks or anything from my music. I really don’t think there’s much royalty in any of my music. A cynical Jester perhaps, but nothing too regal. And I know I’m not getting any of his paypal payouts, but it’s just annoying. I’m sure he doesn’t like the idea of one of his killer jams sharing webspace with a song called Sperm (even if it is a love song). But here’s the kicker: For “Not the Jazz Guy” to even work as a title, I’ve totally got to pay CDBaby to get it into Itunes and Spotify. Otherwise it’s not even all that funny.

Anyway, I hope you like the new site and the new album. And if you ever see an album called “Not the Jazz Guy” tagged under Jazz in Itunes next to a photo of a better looking guy than me sitting behind a baby grand, I hope you chuckle a bit.

At first I wanted to be 'The Fonz.' I wanted the leather jacket (not the lame baby-blue wind-breaker he started the series with), I wanted the motorcycle, I wanted the chicks. Man, did I want the chicks. Then, for a short while, I wanted to be Evil Kinevel. I drew his all-American stars and stripes in crayon on my fathers white motorcycle helmet and raced up and down East Akard Street on my bike. I jumped the curbs, skidded whenever I'd gained enough speed, and tried desperately to ride a wheelie in a vain effort to impress chicks. Unfortunately I was top heavy, still young enough to have a head disproportionately large for my body encased in a helmet that weighed damn near a quarter of my entire body weight. I popped a wheelie that wouldn't stop, road-rashed my back, and chipped my dad's helmet. The chicks laughed. They laughed hard and they laughed long.

I decided to be a cowboy. Tough and rugged. I was going to become Clint Eastwood as the Man With No Name in all those old spaghetti westerns. I'd decided on a career. My life's path seemed clear until it dawned on me that, as cool as he was, Clint never really got chicks in those movies. He just seemed to get shot at. My future looked bleak.

Enter adolescence, the wonder of masturbation and music. New music.

Before junior high, I'd been satisfied with the oldies. I'd been weaned on them. My dad gave me his old mono tape recorder, and I made mixed tapes of the Everly Brothers, Sam and Dave, and all the one-hit-wonders the fifties had to offer. I new the words to every song Fonzie could have heard. I sang Del Shannon's 'Little Runaway' in the shower.
Until.

My older sister brought home Joan Jet's 8-track. It was those same fifties tunes, but something was different. The guitars. What the hell was going on with those guitars. Things came crashing home, I heard Sabbath's Iron Man on the bus to school. Boom Boxes were gaining momentum. Don't Fear The Reaper battled Golden Earring's Twilight Zone at recess. Crazy Train, Van Halen, Aerosmith's Dream On, and then...

THE KINKS.

Give The People What They Want. I had the 8-track, halfway through Back To Front it faded out, the player buzzed, then clicked, and it faded back in again. Around The Dial was an anthem, I couldn't believe the words. It was poetry, wrapped squirming around guitar hooks. Live fucking bait.

And sometimes, rarely, but sometimes, when you think you've got it good, it gets better.

I'd seen the words Pink Floyd scrawled across cinder block walls. At thirteen, I'd yet to smoke my first joint. We hadn't been told that drugs were bad, the Just Say No campaign was years away. Our parents weren't yet old or cynical enough to think that their kids might be using the same drugs that they themselves were still experimenting with. I'd heard the song, Another Brick In The Wall, but never associated it with the graffiti. I had however, associated the graffiti with the older stoner kids who hung out at the park. They were generally zit-faced, greasy-haired, and concert-shirt clad. By their very appearance, they seemed to be waging their own Just Say No campaign. I considered them a scary bunch of losers, and if this Pink Floyd guy was their idol, I wanted nothing to do with him.

But my friend Mike had just acquired a new, younger step-dad with a huge record collection. Mike found The Wall, and soon discovered that the Another Brick part was actually made up of three parts that were scattered throughout the album. I considered this a major oversight by this Floyd guy (I'd yet to realize that Pink Floyd was a band), and decided to set things straight. I borrowed the records, and went home to record the three parts sequentially. I'd seen his fans and so figured that Pink was probably just too stoned to know that two should come right after one and be immediately followed by three. I also decided that I'd try to listen to both albums start to finish, regardless of just how bad it might be.

I remember that day with the same clarity that others reserve for the Kennedy assassination. I dropped the needle down on my pawn shop BSR turntable and sat down at my desk with the liner notes. My second floor bedroom window contained the perfect summer afternoon, cobalt blue, cloudless skies filtered through the green of a huge elm, my neighborhood splayed out below. I could see my friends playing kickball in front of Tony's house. It was a day that every thirteen-year-old should spend outside. The kind of day that tugs thirty-year-olds back to thirteen. But I wasn't going anywhere, unless it was to turn up the volume. From the first, barely audible, 'we came in,' to the very last 'this is where,' I sat transfixed. Art. Goddamn Art. Much too small a word for what I was hearing.

I decided that if stoners thought enough of Pink Floyd to deface public property, maybe stoners were on to something. Becoming a stoner was certainly easier than the whole cowboy thing, and the stoner chicks definitely had an air of easy about them.

Weed was plentiful in suburban Westfield, and joining the stoner ranks exposed me to a whole new library of music. Black Sabbath's 'Master of Reality' became the soundtrack to baked, winter night drives in Nick's Bonneville. Snowflakes bending, Buck-Rogers-ish away from the windshield, Nick punching the dash to the left of the tape deck to encourage the lazy auto reverse, then 'Sweet Leaf's' cough and the heavier-than-god guitar, its droning rhythms made dirtier by the slightly blown speaker in the back. The summer drives demanded Zeppelin, Zep III if it was raining.

We drifted back to the late sixties, tracing the nymph marijuana's forefathers. CSN and Neil Young, the Stones, Hendrix, Dylan, and the magic of T-Rex. To quote Bowie, 'Why do I need TV when I've got T-Rex.'